Chapter Twenty-One Emmy
Chapter Twenty-One
Emmy
I wake slowly, the way you do after something has shifted so deeply it hasn’t finished echoing through your body yet.
There’s an ache threaded through me, deep and languid, the kind that hums instead of hurts. The kind that tells me nothing about last night was imagined. Silk sheets cling to my skin, cool and impossibly smooth, wrapping me in a familiarity that isn’t mine.
I know it immediately.
This isn’t my bed.
It’s his.
I open my eyes, careful, like the morning might startle if I move too fast. Pale light spills in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, cutting the room into quiet shapes and shadows, announcing a new day that feels heavier than it should.
I push myself up slowly.
The space beside me is empty.
He’s gone.
Something in my chest tightens hard enough to steal my breath, not panic, not fear, just a sharp, instinctive pull, like I’ve been set down somewhere unfamiliar without warning.
On the nightstand, my phone waits. Beneath it, a single sheet of paper.
I check the time out of habit. 7:09 a.m. One message. Tate. I don’t open it. Not yet. I’m not ready to let the world back in.
I reach for the paper instead.
The handwriting is neat. Controlled. Unmistakably his.
Little Heaven,
I had to step out to deal with some business.
Don’t leave.
I clutch the paper in my hands longer than necessary, reading the words again and again like they might rearrange themselves if I stare hard enough.
Don’t leave.
Not I’ll be back soon. Not I’m sorry.
Just a directive. Calm. Certain.
The realisation settles slowly, unsettling and intimate all at once: he left me here alone. In his space. Not abandoned, but kept.
At the foot of the bed, another shirt waits. No pants this time. Just fabric, dark and familiar. I reach for it and pull it over my bare skin, the cotton heavy with his scent. Clean. Dark. Him.
The smell hits first.
And suddenly last night crashes back in, sharp and vivid. The date. The way the line blurred and then vanished entirely. The rain. The shower. His restraint finally giving way. The things we said when there was no room left for pretending.
There’s no regret. Not even a flicker.
Only the strange, steady awareness that something irreversible has already taken hold.
I slide out of bed and follow the quiet through the apartment, my steps slow, almost reverent. The hallway opens into the kitchen, all glass and shadow and morning light.
By the coffee machine, another note waits.
I don’t pick it up right away. I just look at it, my pulse ticking louder than it should.
Finally, I read it.
Coffee is brewed.
Make yourself at home.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and stand there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the warmth settle into my hands while I take in the space around me.
I noticed his penthouse last night, felt it more than saw it, but in daylight it looks different. Softer. Calmer. The sharp edges blur, the shadows retreat. It almost feels peaceful.
Almost.
I drift through the living area slowly, coffee cradled in one hand, my other hand trailing behind me.
My fingers skim over smooth surfaces, stone, leather, glass, like I’m learning the shape of him through the things he leaves behind.
Everything here is deliberate. Ordered. Nothing looks lived in by accident.
In the centre of the room sits a massive black couch, positioned with purpose, facing a sleek feature wall and mounted television. A dark coffee table anchors it.
Something pale breaks the symmetry.
A manila envelope.
I stop short.
It doesn’t look staged. It doesn’t look like it was left out for me. If anything, it looks forgotten, set down without thought, like it was never meant to be noticed at all.
My pulse picks up.
I move closer despite myself.
Two names are written across the front in neat, unmistakable handwriting.
Khai. Liam.
My breath catches.
Liam.
The name hums with weight I don’t yet understand. It feels personal. Private. Like something I shouldn’t even be reading, let alone standing over. A quiet certainty settles in my chest:
I wasn’t meant to see this.
This isn’t an invitation.
It’s an oversight.
I stand there, coffee cooling in my hand, staring down at the envelope while a slow, uneasy tension coils inside me. Curiosity presses hard, insistent and sharp, but so does restraint. The instinct to step back. To respect the line I didn’t know was there until now.
Khai hasn’t told me everything about himself. Not yet.
I told myself that was something I could wait for, that trust would come with time, that he’d let me in when he was ready. But standing here, staring down at the envelope, patience feels thin and brittle.
This feels… closer than he’s meant to let me be.
He wouldn’t have left it out if it was private, I reason quietly, clinging to the thought like permission. If it mattered that much, he’d have hidden it.
The lie sounds convincing enough in my head.
I kneel beside the table and set my coffee down carefully, the porcelain clicking too loud in the stillness. My fingers hover for a moment before they skim the edge of the envelope, light and cautious, like it might bite if I touch it too firmly.
The paper is thicker than I expect.
That’s when I notice the date, written smaller beneath the names.
9 July 2015.
My breath stills.
The number settles strangely in my chest, old enough to matter, recent enough to still bleed. I don’t know why I notice that, only that it makes the envelope feel heavier. Less like paperwork. More like something that carries a history.
I’m a heartbeat away from making a decision I can’t take back, one second from lifting the flap, from crossing yet another invisible line,
when the sound of my phone ringing slices through the quiet.
It’s coming from Khai’s bedroom.
The noise startles me, sharp and insistent, and I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned. My pulse skids, guilt and relief tangling together as the phone continues to ring, demanding attention.
The envelope stays where it is. Unopened. Waiting.
The phone rings again.
Sharp. Insistent. Too loud in the hush of his bedroom.
I turn and run for it, bare feet skidding slightly on the polished floor as I push through the door and snatch it up just before the sound cuts off completely.
“Hello,” I answer, breathless, like I’ve been caught doing something I wasn’t meant to.
“Emmy, it’s Erin,” comes the familiar voice of the charge nurse. “I know it’s your day off, but Julie’s called in sick and I’ve exhausted all my other options. Any chance you could cover her shift in ICU today?”
Reality crashes back in, abrupt and unkind.
“Yes,” I hear myself say, even though every part of me resists it. Even though the last place I want to be right now is anywhere that isn’t here. “I can do it. Can you give me an hour?”
“Oh, thank God,” Erin exhales. “Let’s start you at nine?”
“Perfect,” I reply. “I’ll see you then.”
The call ends. Silence rushes in to fill the space it leaves behind.
I stand there for a moment, phone still clutched in my hand, the weight of what I’ve just agreed to settling heavy in my chest. Then I look around.
My clothes are gone.
The dress. The heels. Everything I wore last night has vanished like it never existed. A flicker of unease stirs as I step into the ensuite, empty. Clean. No sign of them at all.
My gaze drifts to the open doorway of his walk-in wardrobe.
I cross the room and step inside.
The lights come on automatically, revealing a space that feels more like an armoury than a closet. Suits in perfect alignment. Shoes arranged with military precision. Combat boots. Jeans. Shirts. Everything immaculate. Controlled.
So Khai.
I scan the shelves until I find what I’m looking for, something soft. Casual. A pair of dark track pants folded neatly among the rest. I tug them on quickly, the fabric unfamiliar and far too intimate all at once.
I pull my phone out again and request an Uber, fingers moving on autopilot. Then I open a message and type before I can overthink it.
Emmy:
Morning. I got called into work. I have to go.
I hesitate, thumb hovering, but don’t add anything else.
I find my handbag waiting for me on the kitchen counter, placed there deliberately, like he knew exactly how this morning would unfold. I sling it over my shoulder and take one last look around the penthouse, at the quiet, the glass, the shadows that already feel too familiar.
As I step out and the door closes behind me, one thought presses in sharp and unwelcome:
I should have said no to work.
The day moves quickly after that.
I’d had to rush home earlier, barely enough time to shower, change, and reset my face into something neutral before work swallowed me whole. By the time I step onto the ward, the quiet authority of routine takes over.
Work is normal.
Rounds. Vitals. Charting. The steady hum of machines. The ICU settles into its familiar rhythm, and I let it anchor me, let it pull me back into the version of myself that knows how to function.
I stop at Bed 9.
Mr Blackwood lies as he always does, still, peaceful, suspended in that fragile in-between. I straighten his blanket, check his monitors, and lean in close.
“It’s me,” I murmur. “Emmy.”
I hesitate, then smile softly despite myself.
“I went on a date with Khai,” I tell him quietly. “The one I wasn’t sure I should go on.”
A pause.
“He’s… intense. Complicated.” My voice lowers. “And I crossed a line I didn’t think I would.”
The machines answer for him, steady and indifferent.
“But I don’t regret it,” I add. “Not even a little.”
I squeeze his hand gently before moving on.
The rest of the shift passes without incident. No alarms. No emergencies. Just that rare, deceptive calm that makes you forget how quickly things can turn.
I see Ryan once, near the nurses’ station, talking to Tate. She laughs at something he says, light and familiar. Ryan glances my way, then looks back at her.
I keep walking.
As my shift nears its end, fatigue settles in. I finish my notes and head toward the nurses’ station, already thinking about grabbing my bag, about sleep, about Khai.
I turn into the side corridor,
And everything disappears.
A hand clamps around my arm from behind, hard and unyielding, yanking me backward before I can react. I’m pulled into darkness, the door slamming shut with a dull, final sound that steals the light from the world.
I squeak, sharp, startled,
And another hand seals over my mouth.